A sound like a storm inside your chest,
where contentment and pleasure battle to rip your skin,
and bloom from your mouth,
and the only reason they stay inside
is your stubbornness,
and the promise of sleep,
and maybe my arms around you.

you ask me why I don’t sleep at night,
why I work while everyone is dreaming,
what makes the absence of light a preference,
and see,
it’s not that I don’t understand your question,
or that I don’t have an answer,
but I’m afraid you’ll not listen
how loud are your thoughts
in the dark,
like being underwater,
when your heartbeat echoes in your bones,
beat after beat after beat
while the oxygen burns in your lungs,
and see,
it’s like that for me when everyone’s dreams
are deafening,
a deep blue silence that keeps my body afloat
and my mind from drowning

Lately I’ve been delving into poetry. Mostly reading, but sometimes writing, too. I torture my friends with my 3am inspirations and first drafts of poems that I wrote on jotterpad when sleep wouldn’t come, but I don’t regret it because it’s fun, and because it makes sense.

The poetry out there is beautiful and fascinating and inspirational and many more adjectives that have a warm and motivational feeling.